


Dante and Michelangelo

by TenderLumplings



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash, pining!mercutio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:49:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenderLumplings/pseuds/TenderLumplings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mercutio is a painter; he wants to do something for his secret muse, poet and friend Benvolio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dante and Michelangelo

**Author's Note:**

> Rachel-buddy wanted Bencutio, so I wrote spontaneous Bencutio.

"What's your favorite kind of flower?"

Benvolio doesn't pause in his writing; Mercutio thinks he looks absolutely beautiful next to the open window, with the way the his skin seems to glow in the light of the setting sun. He would make for a lovely painting. The older boy doesn't answer, so Mercutio starts to repeat his question. "What's –"

"I heard you the first time," says Benvolio, his soft, low voice carrying across the room. "Why do you care?"

"You shouldn't always answer a question with more questions," says Mercutio, lounging on the bed with a wide smile. "I'm just curious. Flowers are lovely, and I want to know if your favorite reflects your own loveliness." The rough scratch of pen against parchment stops, and Mercutio's smile widens even further at the notion of catching Benvolio off-guard. 

"These are words you should be saying to the girls in the courtyard, not me," says the young poet, looking away from Mercutio. If it wasn't for the sun shining down on his friend, he could swear Benvolio's face was flushed. 

"You are as pretty as any girl in Verona, if not more," says Mercutio softly, his thoughts drifting away in the slowly fading light. He catches Benvolio side-eyeing him in a strange way, and flushes himself for being so obvious. "W-well, that is, I don't mean to say you are not masculine, you are, you have a very manly profile and - and other things that make you a man, of course. I only meant that you share a similar aesthetic beauty with the - not that you don't have already –"

" _Crocus medius_ ," Benvolio interrupts his stammering.

"What?"

"My favorite flower." Benvolio gets up and walks to the book shelf next to his bed. He pulls out a thick bound book that smells slightly of grass and flips through it until he finds stops on a page; he shows it to the painter and points at an illustration. It is of a flower, with long leaves and stems. The description written underneath says the leaves are a purple shade, and the plant has a bright scarlet-and-white center. Mercutio imagines the flower in his mind, and he can understand how it is someone like Benvolio's favorite. It is a small and unassuming flower, most usually trampled upon in the meadows and woodlands by thoughtless travelers. But if one were to take a closer look, he would be able to see the rich color, simple beauty, and overall brilliance of this little plant. 

Mercutio smiles; it most certainly does fit the budding poet before him. "Just out of curiosity," he asks, laying back on the bed again, "if one were to look for these flowers, where would he find them in Verona?"

Benvolio shrugs, and lays the book the bed. "It's native to our country, but I am not certain if it grows in this particular part. I saw some once when my parents took me on a trip to a city a little ways west of here, but it was a few years ago. And then just a month or two back I was returning from out of town, and I went by a pasture filled with them! I was so tempted to stop and pick just a few to bring home, but I had a schedule to keep to, so I never ended up going back." He sounds wistful, and Mercutio wants to hold his friend in a tight embrace, but he restrains himself. Instead, he quietly tears the page about the crocus out of the book - feeling only the tiniest pang of guilt for doing so - and slips it into his vest lining for later reference. 

Benvolio goes back to his seat on the window, gathering his things and hastily reading over his work in the dimming sunlight. Mercutio watches, admiration in his eyes and a plan forming in his head.

\---

It is two weeks later, and Mercutio, Benvolio, and Romeo have successfully infiltrated a ball being held by the Capulets. By the time they arrive, the party is in full swing. Romeo has disappeared in a sulk, that for which Mercutio is grateful, because now he can devote his attentions to Benvolio, at least for a while. But the older boy has gone off as well.

He wades through the crowd, smiling and charming his way past people who are almost all Capulets, enemies of his dear Romeo's family. Escalus has made it painfully clear he and his family do not favor one over the other, but almost everyone knows Mercutio prefers the Montagues. There are a few who give the painter strange looks, but everyone else is so jovial and boisterous that he can easily forget what family they belong to for the moment. 

The night is still young; Mercutio would be a liar if he said he did not stop to take a few drinks from the server boys he passed or dance with some pretty girls in his way. He's a loose soul, happy around people and noise and vibrant life. He even almost approaches Rosaline when he sees her, but thinks against it at the last moment. Mercutio sees Tybalt Capulet glaring daggers at him from the balcony above, but ignores him for the most part. 

Finally, he thinks he spots Benvolio somewhere in the back, pointedly avoiding the dance floor and partygoers. Mercutio slips away from a particularly handsy older woman and walks around a column, sneaking up on his friend and resting his hands on his shoulders. The older boy flinches before turning around to face him, a surprised look on his face. 

"What is it?"

"I've been looking for you," says Mercutio a little breathlessly.

"Mm, you have, have you?" Benvolio replies with a knowing smirk. Mercutio bows his head, flushed from both drink and embarrassment. But he recovers quickly, smiling and beckoning Benvolio to follow him out to the promontory. There's a staircase that leads to the dark garden below, and they can still hear music and laughter from inside. 

"I've a gift for you," Mercutio says slyly, reaching into his jacket delicately. 

"Oh?" Benvolio raises an eyebrow, a slightly shocked-skeptical look gracing his expression, but it quickly turns to full-on surprise when he sees what his gift is. 

"Do you like it?" says Mercutio, shy. He holds the crown up to his friend's head, admiring the purple leaves contrasting against Benvolio's darker hair.

"Are these - where did you find them?" says the older boy, eyes shiny and unbelieving. 

"Well, I'm glad you asked, my dearest Benvolio," says Mercutio, gently placing the flower crown on the other's head. "I did find that pasture, the one with the crocuses. I asked around Verona for days before someone could point me in the right direction." He held out his hands. "Shall we dance?"

"Are you serious?" asks Benvolio, looking around. Mercutio shakes his head and steps closer. It is now or never he should make his move. 

"No one will see, out here, and I doubt we would be such a shock. What with the types of things these people get to behind closed doors, two young men dancing together can hardly compare, don't you agree?" Benvolio's lips curl in amusement, and he takes Mercutio's hand, placing his other on his shoulder. 

They sway with the music being churned out by the chamber, the poet a little stiff but slowly easing into the dance. 

"When I saw the flowers for real, right there in front of me, I knew immediately why you were drawn to them," says Mercutio, resting his chin on his friend's shoulder. "The crocus is a simple little flower, easily overlooked. But its beauty does bloom and magnify... when the right person who can appreciate its beauty comes along."

"Yes..." Benvolio hums absently in the painter's ear. Mercutio rejoices at how well things are going, and when the music picks up he spontaneously takes Benvolio into a moderate-paced pseudo-waltz. The couple lasts all of about five measures before they dissolve into a fit of giggles from imagining how silly they must look. They pull apart, still smiling at each other, and the song inside ends. The partygoers applaud the chamber, and Mercutio decides he might as well do one last thing before this pleasant night comes to an end. 

Still staring into the other's eyes, he takes Benvolio's hand and brings it to his lips, barely brushing against the skin in the softest of kisses. He lets go, and the poet lowers his hand slowly, eyes wide, face pink. Mercutio half-expects him to storm off, or scold or laugh at him, or anything along those lines, because maybe he has gone a bit too far.

But Benvolio stays. He doesn't look away, but his face is quite red. He starts to say something, then pauses and tries again. Mercutio is amused; for once, his clever wordsmith has no words to say. 

After another false start, Benvolio clears his throat and says, "Er, it is getting late. I believe it would be wise to collect Romeo and get home before we are thrown out. I think I saw him running across the garden a bit before you found me."

Mercutio nods. "Of course, excellent. Lead the way." 

Benvolio nods along with him, before catching himself and turning even redder. He turns and heads down the stairs, hands in his pockets. "Coming?" he asks when he reaches the bottom. 

"Yes, yes." Maybe in a week Mercutio will finally find the courage to ask Benvolio to sit for a painting. He doesn't know why, but he feels that the next few days are really going to start looking up for him. 

The flowers in Benvolio's hair stand out even in the dark, and Mercutio thinks he looks absolutely beautiful.


End file.
